


Goddess Hotline

by nns_kanoe



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Crack, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nns_kanoe/pseuds/nns_kanoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One wouldn't have said that Ymir was unattractive, Jean's vote doesn't count. But for some reason, such a specimen, celebrating life as a flaming homosexual, has never dated anyone before. Jean takes it on himself to remedy that, much to his friend's despair. </p>
<p>No regard for clean language whatsoever, otherwise PG13. YmirChrista, hints of JeanArmin. Still can't tag. My attempt at humor. TBC depending on mood. Revised from ffnet, old work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**((A.N.:** Mainly strong language warnings, AU, and the overall idea wasn’t mine, I just found it on tumblr and played with it to the best of my limited ability. Also, before anyone even asks, yes, yes it is Armin. **))**

 

As is usually the case with many bad ideas and embarrassing situations, it all started with a bet.

 

“Haah?” A tall girl with tired, grumpy eyes and her black hair pulled back into a messy tail turned to her co-worker, who was just reaching for the skim milk.“The hell you talking ‘bout?” She grouched impatiently in all her freckle-faced glory, then turning back to the next customer behind the counter with the smile of a politician.

 

Focus still trained on the espresso machine, Jean gave a shrug, figuring he still had some room to maneuver before Ymir would chokehold him against a wall. “What I’m saying is… You’re actually scared of dating, ain’cha.”

 

Admittedly, Jean wasn’t the most pleasant co-worker to share a shift with in the cafe. Hadn’t it been for a strong sense of work ethic, (read as a watchful boss) she would’ve written an outrageous wrong order on the cup she was holding and let _him_ deal with the resulting customer complaints. “Shut up asshole” was all she quietly muttered while passing by him in the cramped work area.

 

All her hopes of him letting it go were blown into the chilly late-Autumn wind when they stepped out of the cafe back-door after work. While shifting her hoodie tighter around her neck, Jean caught up to her as if going after his next date victim. With a groan, she hoped dearly that he wasn’t going to bring up their previous topic.

 

“So, you gonna prove me wrong or what.”

 

“About what.” Came a grunt with all the enthusiasm of a stagnant basement puddle.

 

“You’re scared of dating.”

 

The careful usage of a statement and not a question just made it much worse than Ymir had thought was humanly possible. Even for Jean’s _well_ established standards.

 

“You’re a right pain in the ass, yanno that.” She replied, giving up on pulling her hoodie any higher around her neck and promptly flipping the hood over her head. “No wonder all the chicks you date start avoiding you after a couple hours.”

 

Jean, for once before jumping straight for an ego defense, caught her intention with a grin. “Oh come on, don’t give me that schtick.” He smirked, trudging alongside his co-worker. “This isn’t about me.”

 

“For once eh, princess?”

 

“Shut up, bitch.”

 

They walked in silence, save for the howling of nighttime wind and the occasional expletive when stomping right into a puddle.

 

Jean glanced at his watch, attempting to look preoccupied. “So, you gonna talk about it?”

 

At that, she turned to him with a murderous glare. “Keep your nose where it belongs, fucktard, you’re not my psychiatrist.”

 

Hands thrown in the air, Jean feigned dramatic shock. “Whoah, pissed enough to throw out bad names? That’s low, even for you.”

 

Head beginning to throb with the will to murder, Ymir sneered as the fork in their paths finally arrived. “Look who’s talking.” She threw out, swearing to herself that the customers be damned tomorrow; she was gonna write that wrong order. “I am not scared of dating, being this openly _gay_ ought to have proven that.”

 

Apparently the low growl and irritated glare weren’t telling enough to Jean that one side of the conversation was intensely unwilling. “But you’ve never actually dated anyone.”

 

She didn’t know what urged her to reply. “It’s better than having gone after that many girls with no one calling back.”

 

His co-worker physically leaning in the direction of her route home didn’t deter the conversation from continuing. “Hey man at least I try. It just seems you don’t even wanna try. Why? You scared of rejection or something? Come on, help me out here.”

 

“I am NOT afraid of rejection.” Ymir spat, the throbbing in her head intensifying as she sought all possible means of making the boy shut the hell up. “Just mind your own fucking business, before I ram your head into a lamp-post.”

 

Shrugging, unamused and apparently not threatened, Jean merely took a half-step back. “Pff, right, sure. Whatever you say, yanno? You won’t even _prove_ it.”

 

“Look here.” Ymir stopped in her tracks, turning on a heel and making a grab for Jean’s collar; or at least attempting. With a dainty step back he quickly evaded capture. “If that’s what it’s gonna take for you to shut your trap, then fine, I’ll prove it. Now would you please just shut your whore mouth and let me go home?”

 

Smirking down like the cat with the cream, Jean raised both hands in the air, finally satisfied. “You’re _so_ on.”

 

The two parted ways, Ymir now trying to think of loopholes to dodge while retaining her dignity. Jean however flipped out his phone to look for the number of a new chick he'd hit on a couple days ago; a smart, demure little blonde girl with blue eyes and an adorable bob cut.

 

* * *

 

By the time Ymir’s alarm went off the next morning, there was still no loophole in sight. Jean’s challenge had been so vague, so rough, so badly thought out. So much so that in an odd way, it was far too straightforward, and anything Ymir could have pulled would immediately seem like she was trying too hard.

 

That was, however, till she stepped into the cafe and laid eyes on a cutesy little noticeboard sitting on the counter. Among workers, it had been affectionately named the ‘board of shame’; the barista for the day would have to write their name on it, and a drink recommendation. Their boss had seen it online somewhere and thought it to be cute; among workers however, it was just about as grudgingly perpetuated as hygiene.

 

At least, up till that moment.

 

She grabbed the board and a chalk marker, sitting down with it, focusing on one thing and one thing only.

 

_Maximum potency._

When Jean stepped into the workstation, still groggily tying his apron, he looked up to much sniggering and whispering among customers at the counter where Ymir was serving.

 

“Hell’s going on?” He half yawned, somewhat surprised that Ymir didn’t seem at all anguished by his challenge. “Yo, Ymir, whatcha...”

 

The words were shoved back into his mouth by the board of shame being pushed right up to his face. Brushing his co-worker’s hands away, he grabbed the board, resulting in a long, hard stare.

 

In Ymir’s unmistakable penmanship, with all the elegance of a writhing earthworm, was the following.

 

**TODAY YOUR BARISTA IS:**

**1.** Hella fucking gay.

**2.** Desperately single.

**FOR YOUR DRINK TODAY I RECOMMEND:**

You give me your number.

 

Jean stared and stared again, reading through it several times to make sure he didn’t suddenly lose his grip on linguistic proficiency.

 

“You’re a crazy-ass mental, you know that?”

 

In one swift move Ymir had reclaimed the board and placed it right back where it had stood proudly; on the counter in plain view. For sure fucking certain, no one was going to give their number to someone this rough round the edges. Even if they did, all Ymir had to do was toss it and never have to deal with the person again.

 

The day more or less passed with her plan working to perfection. Several guys passed over their numbers for shits and giggles, making quick exits while Ymir nonchalantly shredded the napkins they were written on. As the end of her shift slowly crept closer, she started feeling pretty good about having definitively done Jean one better.

 

The door swung open, pushing a rustic sounding cowbell that conditioned the Pavlovian welcoming response from staff.

 

Ymir looked up, her hands more active than her mind was. “Welcome to… Holy crap.”

 

An awkward stare from the customer she’d been serving prompted a hasty apology, and the barista looked away from the cutest, tiniest little blonde girl who’d just walked in.

 

Hell, even Jean, who wouldn’t shut up about the blonde girl _he’d_ just met, couldn’t stop staring.

 

For that moment, Ymir just wanted desperately to keep the board of shame before the cherubim made it to the front of the line. For the first time that day, it regained its status as the board of shame, and not that of ‘ _Ymir rubbing her magnificent non-existent balls of chromoly steel in Jean’s bitch face_ ’. She toyed with the idea, all she’d need to do was grab it, put it away for a second, then put it back on display once Maria Goretti left.

 

But, Jean was watching. She wasn’t sure if he was watching the board, or the angel among mortals. But he was watching.

 

The board stayed in place, as the tanned girl stiffly attempted normal customer service.

 

Just as she wrote “vanilla latte” on the right sized paper cup, she turned back to Helen of Troy just long enough to realize she was chuckling at the, now incontestable, board of shame.

 

All the smug satisfaction of Jean’s skirting around any mentions of the bet were instantly deflated.

 

That bastard was going to deal with that wrong order, full stop.

 

Speaking of whom, it seemed as if he was deliberately making a very, very slow vanilla latte. Every move he made seemed to be sluggish and clumsy, when in fact he was doing his job just as he would have any other day. Perhaps even a little faster in efforts to impress.

 

The drink was hastily snatched out of his hand the moment he lifted it up, and within the second it was placed (with a coffee collar, naturally) into the customer’s hand.

 

She smiled her thanks; and merciful lord, that face lit up the shop and several blocks down to boot. Ymir distinctly heard the sound of a dropped fork.

 

She swallowed, mechanically allowing work ethic to take over. “That’ll be $3.25.”

 

The tiny girl, barely tall enough to peer up over the counter, hastily stopped writing something before giving a quick nod, and reaching for her wallet. Hidden among the bills that Ymir eventually got though, was a small piece of notebook paper.

 

She stared at it with all the social grace of a paralysis victim. “... The hell is this?” She let slip, her mind catching up to her just before the girl looked up to speak.

 

“It’s my number.” She smiled, while Ymir read the name ‘Krista’ to herself over and over.

 

After releasing a sound oddly akin to a sea mammal dying ashore, Ymir found herself looking much less comfortable in her skin than the girl who had just handed over her phone number to a stranger.

 

Another smile and the girl dropped her change into the tip jar, leaving with the faintest of blushes on her face. As the door lazily swung shut, there was a pregnant moment of silence in the cafe before everyone realized they’d been holding their breaths, and resumed their activities.

 

The two baristas were, of course, somewhere between paralyzed and solidified after maximum exposure and direct contact with the artifact. Ymir in particular felt a stiffness in her wrist from actually engaging her in conversation.

 

Work resumed upon sheepish prompting from the next customer in line. With an awkward cough, both of them got back to the tasks at hand. Jean thoughtfully scratched the side of his face. “... Hey, you think...”

 

“Just… Don’t say anything.” Ymir cut him off in a conditioned reflex, trying to block out the fact that she had Saint Agnes’ number sitting in her pocket.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings as the previous chapter. Also, I reckon most may have gathered that I practice diligent restraint when bullying Jean and Ymir.

In the days following that act of God, Jean noticed (a few hours later than most) that a shaken and even _timid_ Ymir became a regular feature behind the counter; barring work, the girl hadn’t spoken a word to him beyond health and weather.

 

Though, it seemed to Ymir that Jean had been struck by a similar incident that he wouldn’t speak of. He was silent far beyond his usual margin, even when _given_ chances to talk about himself. For other co-workers, it seemed almost as if they’d hired two new staff. While the area behind the counter did now match the quaint, happy, light sort of atmosphere of the seating area (much to Mike’s satisfaction), staff were now deprived of their primary source of (largely harmless) entertainment.

 

There was something to be known about the two in particular. Prior to the goddess incident, many had assumed the two were in some odd sort of twisted relationship. While they outwardly and obtusely, truthfully hated each others’ guts, they shared a strangely solid bond of camaraderie. Ymir would usually be the first one Jean approached to brag about new girlfriends, however she’d also be the first person to enthusiastically share booty critique, or hear of an ugly breakup. While Ymir was responsible for most of the merciless lops over the head that Jean received, and arguments behind the counter, they regularly clocked off from work together and shared a route home.

 

It was one such night on the way back when Jean, shuffling along stiffly, took out his phone and stared at it for a decidedly long time before heaving a long sigh. Ymir peered over, curiosity rather than concern finally loosening her lips. “The hell’s wrong with you, you been outta it for days now.” She had suspected it was something to do with Krista, whose number Ymir still cherished in her wallet, but had never punched into her phone.

 

“Heh. Nothing.”

 

Ymir raised an eyebrow; this was a first. Normally Jean would be the one coming up to her to blabber about self-absorbed escapades she didn’t much care for. Surprising even herself, she felt concern from the silence rather than relief. “You sure?”

 

“... You contacted the girl yet?”

 

Offering to talk about other people even, something was definitely wrong, Ymir decided with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Then can I...”

 

Jean was rewarded his first whop over the head in days. “Piss off, fucker.” At that, he simply laughed. Ymir waited for the returning blow; it never came.

 

She recalled the last few days before everyone had seemingly shot themselves in the feet. Wasn’t there someone else Jean had been enamored with? She did recall him talking about her quite a bit more enthusiastically than he had other flings. Perhaps because this girl was for once, shock horror, responsive.

 

She carefully set her tone of speech, balancing between disinterest and casual curiosity; no sense in letting Jean think she might’ve actually cared. “What happened to that blonde chick you’ve been talking about? The one with the bob cut.” She muttered, breathing against her hands to warm up a bit. Jean however, stiffened, ignorant of the wind chill; a telltale sign that his friend had hit a raw nerve. “Things not going well with her?”

 

Jean chewed on his response for a considerably long moment; he wasn’t used to thinking things through before speaking after all. At length, he did stammer out a question, though it took Ymir several increasingly irritated yells to get his volume up. “How is it like, yanno, being uhm… Gay.”

 

“What? She turn out to be a lesbian or…” The look on Jean’s face somehow conveyed what had happened, even with his lips sealed tighter than a jar in the freezer. “Oh, for the love of... I always knew you were fucking _stupid_ but, really?” Her lips contorted into a disbelieving smirk.

 

Jean rolled his eyes in pent-up frustration. “Look, bitch, it’s not my fault. He’s really tiny and cute, and he doesn’t look or behave like a guy... Fuck, he doesn’t even _sound_ like one!”

 

Despite herself, the only thing Ymir could do at that moment for her pseudo-friend… Was throwing whatever scraps of concern she’d had to the wind and laugh loud enough to wake the neighborhood. “Fucking Christ Jean, I wish I coulda been there to see your bitch face when you realized!” she wheezed, Jean stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning towards his own home.

 

“You’re no help.”

 

After a minute or so of almost falling over, Ymir wiped her eyes and wrung an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Ah, ok seriously now. What’s the big problem? If you’re gay just date him, if you’re not then forget it and get on with your miserable, self-serving, narcissistic life.”

 

“It’s… It’s not that simple.” Jean grouched, grinding his teeth in irritation at Ymir making light of his crisis. “I mean… He’s really cute and everything, if he was a girl I’d never let him go. But...”

 

“But he’s a guy.” Ymir finished up for him, picking her fingernails in a display of uncontrollable enthusiasm. “I dunno man. Maybe try fucking him then decide, you might be gay but just don’t know it.”

 

Following a notable pause, Ymir turned to her friend. From the resulting look of worship on his face, she immediately knew that Jean had missed two points. For one, the suggestion had clearly been one of jest. For two, it was a terrible suggestion to begin with. Still, he seemed to be taking it as the word of God.

 

“I hate to admit it, but you got a pretty badass idea there.”

 

“Forget to pay your brain bill this year?”

 

“The hell’s that mean?” Even in confusion, he was practically glowing.

 

Ymir scratched an ear, turning away from the suddenly enlightened boy. For the life of her she was not going to accept the twang in her chest as guilt. “... Nothing man. Don’t hold me responsible if anything happens.”

 

That night when Ymir had completed her usual washup routine, she flopped on her bed, flipped out her phone, followed by her wallet, and proceeded to vex over the same thing she’d been pulling her hair out over for the past few nights.

 

Krista’s phone number had been dialed up to the 2nd to last digit (breaking the record of 4th to last from the previous night) before Ymir hastily hung up and hid under her pillow. The time since Krista’s visit to the cafe was then approaching one week, trapping Ymir between the reluctance of calling, and fear of Krista forgetting her completely.

 

She paused to wonder if Jean would seriously have taken her ‘advice’; and if he did, would this be the end of his first real potential relationship. Despite herself, the tall girl started feeling worried beyond what she’d have cared to admit, and flipped through her contacts for ‘bitch from work’. The number had been tagged to a picture of him on his ass after tripping on a soaked rag, one hand held up trying to block the camera.

 

A smirk tugged at her lips while she keyed a quick message.

 

[Bitch, it was a joke, dont do it.]

 

There was no reply, which only meant one thing; Ymir’s attempt at excusing herself from dealing with Krista’s phone number had, once again, been thwarted.

 

With another sigh, she shut off her phone, turning to the one eternal distraction.

 

Tumblr.

 

If Ymir felt remorse from Jean not appearing at reporting time the next morning, she let none of it show. Instead, she settled right back to work, pretending there wasn’t some remnant of a conscience tugging at her.

 

Along with the now crinkled notebook page still stuck in Ymir’s wallet.

 

Morning prep had just been completed when Ymir’s phone vibrated in her pocket, prompting the girl to flinch, hastily digging it out.

 

[Just saw ur message. Not comin in for morning shift.]

 

For that moment, just for a split second, Ymir could feel her shoulders tensing as the added weight of Jean’s disappointment hiked on her. “Tsk… Not my fault he was a fucking dumbass...” she muttered, flipping the sign on the door and opening it for a couple waiting outside.

 

Where Ymir normally would’ve been on the forefront of complaining whenever the cafe was short-handed, that morning the work area was shrouded in a polite, understanding silence. No move was made to coax Ymir for the details, much to her relief; she’d be damned before getting pegged with the blame for his absence.

 

The lunch crowd had just begun to dissipate when Ymir noticed Sasha staring at the entrance, her hands paused on a bag of pretzels. Curious, she followed the girl’s gaze to Krista walking in, and let out the same dying sea mammal noise she had when receiving the phone number.

 

“Sasha take over!” She blurted, before realizing said girl had just, once again, incurred Mike’s wrath for snacking on the job. Connie quickly denied eye contact, focusing on a mocha. Biting her lip, Ymir cringed visibly when Krista arrived at the front of the queue, face and lips burning as if she’d just tipped a couple back with Jean.

 

“Vanilla latte again, miss?” She blurted out before Krista could even finish going through the drink menu. At first surprised, Krista gave a little chuckle.

 

“Yes, I’d like that.”

 

Ymir stammered while fumbling for her sharpie. “R-Right.” It was unbearable to see the girl giggling at her barista’s obvious discomfort, but judging from the ridiculous crooked grin on Ymir’s lips, even Sasha knew what was going on.

 

Hell, even just writing Krista’s name on the cup, Ymir felt goddamned special.

 

While taking the next order and waiting on Connie to finish brewing, Ymir carefully, quietly studied the tiny blonde waiting at a side. Her silky blonde hair was tied up in a messy updo, loose locks gently framing her face. She wore a simple, cream colored off shoulder sweater, a light scarf encircling her delicate neck, giving Ymir barely a peek of the dips in her collarbones. Her downcast blue eyes were curtained by light brown lashes as she studied a yellowing novel...

 

A poke in the waist, and Ymir snapped back to reality; specifically the part about Connie handing her a vanilla latte.

 

“Krista?” She read out the name on the cup, relishing the syllables rolling off her lips, and more importantly the satisfaction of having Krista looking up at her beckon. “That’ll be $3.25.”

 

The blonde girl smiled, handed over a couple bills, and dropped her change into the tip jar.

 

But even then, she made no move to leave the counter. Nor did anyone in the line give so much as a squeak about it. Instead she stayed where she was, fidgeting with her drink and slipping her book back into her purse.

 

Ymir began feeling the flush return to her face, checking the receipts to keep herself occupied, or at least look it on Mike’s watch. “Is there something wrong with your order?”

 

She seemed startled, guilt seizing Ymir as Krista looked away, playing with her coffee collar. “Oh? Oh, no, not at all. I was just wondering… About my number-”

 

Numbed by the anticipation, Ymir felt a jumpscare punching through her spine when Jean landed a hand on her shoulder from behind, the girl immediately letting out an undignified gasp and wheeling around to a face she could’ve socked right there and then. She remembered Krista; shoving him away, she turned back to the tiny blonde, whose eyes were blown wide with amused disbelief.

 

Disoriented, a heavy mix of confusion and exasperation muddling her mind, she struggled for words. “Uh, uhm, that is… I’LL CALL YOU.”

 

Krista blinked, letting out a chuckle at length and circling her slender fingers around the warm paper cup. “Alright.”

 

With that, she turned to leave, once again all eyes on her as the door lethargically swung shut.

 

The brief moment of silence ended all too soon, as Jean took over the counter and shoved Ymir to Connie’s side. “Yanno. That was really loud.”

 

She turned on him with a growl, already feeling Mike’s eyebrow twitching and the pain of a gruelling riot act to come in the back of her head. “Shut your bitch face, or I’ll stomp it in.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point it's probably safe to say that this may continue. Also, I tried to find and credit the original tumblr post that inspired this. I couldn't. Now you know it really was from tumblr. 
> 
> On a more serious note though. If anyone finds it or happens to have it, do let me know, I'd be more than glad to credit. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Some part of me somehow wanted to give Ymir a Scottish accent. I blame Burnistoun. Thank the All-father for small gifts of restraint.


End file.
